


a cryptid creation

by elizabethelizabeth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6th Century, Banter, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Gen, Humor, Loch Ness Monster, Scotland, scottish mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22383985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth
Summary: Aziraphale, in 565 A.D., is on his most ridiculous assignment yet.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 99





	a cryptid creation

**Author's Note:**

> this is...so dumb. blame the romcom discord.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ye cannae swim?”

“No, no.” Aziraphale wished, sacrilegiously, that he had the inherent capacity to lie. As it was, he had to focus very hard on lying—or, indeed, to do anything even slightly off-kilter in the eyes of Upstairs. “I can swim. I’m just…” Aziraphale looked worriedly out over the river, wider and more fast-paced than it was a minute ago. The waters seemed to sense his hesitation and change in response. “Are we  _ positive  _ the man didn’t just…drown?”

There was a general uproar at that from the local townsfolk, blending together into general Gaelic gibberish, accompanied by the equally loud Irish lilt of Aziraphale’s current companions. Columba seemed the most insistent out of the lot of them, despite him having heard the horrid tale not five minutes ago.

The tale, in short, was this: earlier that morning, Columba and his gathered companions were interrupted at their morning prayers and frantically told of a mysterious death at the hands (fins?) of a monster in the River Ness. Columba, who never missed an opportunity to inspire faith in these heathen masses (the missionary’s words, not Aziraphale’s) gathered his fellows and made straightaway for the river’s edge. A corpse, a gathered group, and a hysterical notion of an aquatic sea monster responsible for the corpse’s demise greeted the group.

Aziraphale, who had been assigned to travel with Columba for a few months at that point, had officially reached the limit of his patience with the onset of this nonsense.

“Fine,  _ fine _ .”

“Go,” Columba repeated, pointing across the choppy water as if there was  _ another  _ body of water Aziraphale was supposed to be looking at. “Swim across, entice the creature to ye. I will bless the river as soon as the monster shows. Ye will be safe.”

Aziraphale thought that very unlikely, but who was he to argue with a future saint?

He chanced a minor miracle to make the water bearably warm and another for his tunic to stop getting in the way of his kicking feet. There wasn’t much Aziraphale could do for the choppy water without attracting the wrong sort of attention from the onlookers at the shore. He had the blissful thought, momentarily, of banishing the memory of the incident from all of their minds, but the threat of future paperwork associated with it put paid to it.

Aziraphale was certain the entire endeavor was ludicrous and uncomfortable. There was river water up his nose. Seaweed tangled itself ticklishly round his legs. The only creature, great or small, that Aziraphale saw during his tributary plunge was a curious fish who chanced a closer look at the floating blond detritus, decided it was not food, and swam away.

And then,

“Aziraphale?”

The angel gawked, for that was the only reaction he was capable of at the sight appearing before him.

From the water’s depths rose a scaled, sinuous beast, bedecked in black and red and shining unnaturally in the foggy air. The water around the creature moved along undisturbed by his presence, the river obviously accustomed to the intrusion. Aziraphale was close enough that he could see stubborn drops cling to the water-resistant scales, precariously perched before returning riverward. Whenever Aziraphale thought the creature couldn’t possibly grow any taller, it defied his expectations, rising out of the water to tower over Aziraphale. The scales on the body morphed into a face reminiscent of the Medusa myth. 

Aziraphale was sure of two things of the creature.

One, this was definitely not the Kraken, because the Kraken was due to appear in the Atlantic Ocean.

Second, this creature had a voice so distinct that Aziraphale couldn’t help but immediately identify it.

“What in the  _ hell _ are you playing at, Crowley?”

Before the Crowley-creature could answer, the frantic voice of Columba came from the shore. “Fear not, sir! I will stop the monster!”

“Oh, bugger off,” was Crowley’s reply, said moments before Aziraphale resolved to say it himself. With a gesture of his head and a shower of droplets, the frantic screaming and unrelenting blessing from the shore stopped. Aziraphale spun around, saw the crowd on the shore frozen in their places, and spun back around to glare at Crowley. “Don’t look at me like that, angel. I’d rather not have blessings hurled at me while I’m trying to have a pleasant conversation.”

“I’ll throw blessings at you myself, you insolent idiot! What the hell is going on here?”

“Well, I definitely didn’t kill that bloke on the shore, because I think that’s what you’re really asking.”

That made Aziraphale feel relieved for approximately two seconds. “Would you care to explain, then, why you’re like” Aziraphale waved the hand that wasn’t treading water at Crowley. “That?”

“No need it to say it diminishingly, angel. Quite rude of you. Thought your side didn’t approve of that?”

“You’re being intentionally obtuse.”

“Ach.” Crowley shook his head again, and if he could smile in this form he would have. As it was, Aziraphale could  _ sense  _ the amusement like a current. “Am not.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“You’re,” Aziraphale interrupted himself with a huffed, angry breath. “Stop that.”

Crowley only chuckled in response.

“Why do the foolish Inverness townspeople think you killed that man on the shore?”

“Because he drowned after seeing me. Shock, I think. I really didn’t mean to scare him.” The amusement had now changed to remorse, which was, frankly, ridiculous, as demons most likely couldn’t feel the emotion. “I was sent here to stir up some local paranoia, maybe incite some pagan mysticisms about the monster of the River Ness.”

“You’re here on  _ assignment? _ ”

“What, you thought I went around disguising myself as a bloody sea serpent for fun?”

The unsaid  _ yes  _ hung heavy as the hazy air around them. 

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?” Crowley asked after the silence had lasted long enough.

“Do you mean in the river, or in the area in general?”

“Now  _ you’re  _ being obtuse.”

“I’m accompanying the priest who tried to consecrate the river. He’s going to be a saint.”

“For praying local cryptids away?”

Aziraphale didn’t know, actually, but he still said, “Of course not,” with enough bravado to convince Crowley.

“Well, far be it from me to stop you, then.”

“Isn’t that your  _ job?” _

“Yeah, but I really don’t fancy being a serpent for much longer.” Crowley spun in the water, attempting to see his scales at all angles. “Having this much flexibility is starting to freak me out.”

Aziraphale had the instant, awful thought of  _ it doesn’t stop you from being ridiculously lithe in human form,  _ but that was most likely better left unsaid.

“Tell you what, angel. After time starts again, I’ll pretend to be properly blessed from the area, flashes and splashes and all that, and you can swim back to shore with tales of how your faith saved you from the ferocious beast. I get my monster legacy, and your priest gets to convince the locals that She’s almighty and all that rot. Sound peachy?”

“You are utterly incorrigible.”

“Maybe we’ll work together again, someday.”

“I find that highly unlikely.”

Aziraphale miracled the river water out of his tunic and from his skin hours later, but he couldn’t miracle away the image of Crowley’s serpent form diving back into the water, splashless and sleek. 

**Author's Note:**

> any historical inaccuracies re: Saint Columba are entirely my own fault. all other historical inaccuracies are intentional.


End file.
